


What Must be Done

by Kopious



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cloki, Frosthawk - Freeform, Hawkfrost - Freeform, Hawki - Freeform, M/M, The Avengers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:39:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kopious/pseuds/Kopious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Clint Barton is on a leave from SHIELD and cannot wrap his head around the Manhattan Incident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Must be Done

_My Little Hawk_

It had been a long time—

_You have heart…_

—Since the Manhattan Incident _._

 

                The alarm that sits on his bedside table blinks 3:16 AM in bright red, digital numerals. All is still in the world, even for ‘loud-and-proud’ New York City. The only audible sound in Clint’s apartment is the soft patter of rain against the window panes.

               

                His heart races. Shallow breathing turns rapid within a few meek seconds; his breath is hitched and panicked. He squints in an attempt to close his eyes further. His sleep is jagged.

               

 A nightmare is commonly defined as a dream that has the ability to rouse strong emotional responses from the mind. Negative emotions brought on by a nightmare are typically that of sadness, terror, anxiety, and or fear. Reoccurring nightmares that interfere with common sleeping patterns are frequently associated with insomnia, or an inability to sleep when it is required or desired.

           

Clint does not consider himself an insomniac. Anyone that knew him close enough would disagree with his conclusion on sleeplessness. Recently, he has not had any close friends. Following the Manhattan incident, he was viewed differently.

_As a traitor._

                Many of his fellow SHIELD operatives would deny this in a heartbeat—in the past, Clint was seen as a friend and a skilful co-worker. Many agents still wanted to see him as such; Kind Clint, the sharpshooter.  _Nothing wrong here._

 

                However, hiding in the back of every SHIELD agent’s mind was a doubt…a fear. Had he truly returned as  _Kind Clint_? What was that gleam in his eye? Is it anger, or vengeance? What had that demigod done to  _our_  Clint? He saw reluctance on their faces when they passed him in the corridors of SHIELD’s home base. They would look down or away—no one wanted to lock eyes with him. When it came to actual contact with the man, conversations grew brief; his closest acquaintances wanted to avoid talking to him at all costs. Tony was always busy and only spoke to him during meetings and Steve only took part in mild chit-chat with Clint. Bruce was never around, and Natasha had often been absent due to many field assignments. 

           

Clint was very far from being the dark and dangerous monster that everyone viewed him as. The gloom in his eyes and the sullen expression that commonly rested on his worn face was due only to the unbearable hours he spent every night wide awake and weltering in an emotional mess.

               

 3:17AM. The same dream every night.

 

                It has been a year.

 

                He tells everyone that he is alright—his tone is always gruff, leaving those that he speaks to doubtful and unsure of his state of being. However, his voice is only dry and uncaring...Nothing more. Clint suffers from insomnia, and he knows this as a fact. He will not admit it, though.

 

                The images that dance before his eyelids do not directly disturb the man. A nightmare is terrifying and horrible, but what goes on in his lethargic mind does not cause him any dread as he sleeps. If anything, what he sees is _pleasurable_.  It would be difficult for one to overlook the erection he has underneath his thin bed sheet. Despite all this, Clint Barton is growing  _petrified_.             

   

             3:18. He finally wakes. His eyes shoot open and he sits bolt upright, staring aimlessly into the darkness. It continues to rain. He pants like a dog out of breath as cold sweat steams down his face in thin beads.

         

_It has been a year._

 

                He sighs. The disorientation that had wracked his body slips away as well as the initial panic that had seethed his entire being. A moan passes his dry lips and he leans forward, now cradling his forehead with the palms of his clammy hands. He begins to sob.

 

                Every night for a year.

 

                It had been worse to begin with. After the few nights below Stuttgart with the blue cube at his side and the Manhattan Incident, Clint was weak. He smiled despite the pain he harboured, and laughed alongside the Avengers.  Depression was evident to some, but later shrugged off as just a bad day on the archer’s behalf. He had a good poker face, which helped disguise his suffering. After Thor had returned to Asgard with the tesseract, Manhattan was safe. The first night back in his apartment, his only home besides SHIELD’s many bases of operation, he was happy to oblige to his natural instincts and give into the uncanny desire to sleep.

 

                The whole mishap with Loki was fresh in his mind a year ago. Weeks after it was over, he still avoided his bed and all thoughts of sleep. The bottle was his only friend, and it sickened him. He had previously been sober _. Five months, down the drain._  Sleep came only when he passed out, completely out-of-his-mind drunk and disordered. Even then, out cold and lying sprawled across the small couch, images still swayed across his mind in a familiar pattern.

 

                3:20. His sobbing has ceased and he has control of himself again. Clint rolls over in his bed and grabs the pillow, closing his eyes and letting out a distressed sigh.

 

                He would be up in another two hours enveloped within another episode, repeating the entire fit again.

 

                 _It had been a year._

***

A person who does not sleep goes through many mental and physical changes. Chronic insomnia is sleeplessness that is eminent for a month or longer and is commonly the result of another disorder. Those suffering from chronic insomnia usually face muscle fatigue and or mental stress. It is common for those with insomnia to not only have trouble getting to sleep, but also constantly wake in the middle of the night. Most insomniacs with this characteristic also have trouble falling to sleep again after a midnight awakening, which is not an unbelievable fact. Those with poor sleep quality most often have major depressive disorder, or clinical depression. 

 

It never once occurred to him that he was sick, at least not in his conscious mind. Somewhere in the back of his head, he faced the truth boldly. However, admittance was buried in an abyss Clint did not want to venture into. Therapy was out of the question. Even in a drunken-stupor, Clint would boldly reject any idea of turning his problems over to some over-priced, snobby Dr. Hannibal Lecter-esque shrink. He would keep his issues buried.

 

                No, it wasn’t that he had killed innocent people—he had long since forgiven himself for that. He justified his actions by blaming Loki and the cube. Was that wrong? No, not at all. Loki had abducted him against his own will, and slaving under the god’s power was out of his control. He had been brainwashed.

                Loki.

                Following _the_ Incident, his name would send a shiver up Clint’s spine. He would look down or away when the Avengers spoke of the trickster. Soon, they noticed. They avoided talk of the god when Clint was around and eventually dropped the whole subject of the tesseract with the archer. In the beginning, it hurt Clint for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of.

                Now, a year later and staring up at his ceiling at 6:32 in the morning, he knew why it bothered him. He sighs again, now rubbing dry tears from his eyes. He remembers a conversation from a while ago.

                _“Sir, I am requesting a brief leave of absence from work. My mental state is interfering with my occupations in the agency,” he had requested as painstakingly formal as possible._

_“Oh? You look_ fine _to me. I’ll give you the day off if you’re_ so _absolutely incapable of work, Agent Bart—“_

_“Sir, I tried to kill myself last night.”_

                It had been at least a month or so since he was sent home on a short medical leave. He had intended on returning once he felt better, but the time never came. A few times they called him just to check up, _just to make sure he was alive_ …Natasha came by to chat once or twice too. It was awkward every time.

                Some days at SHIELD he was over emotional. The littlest things, such as Fury giving him a simple order would push him over the edge. Other times, it was the exact opposite—he felt absolutely nothing. He was terribly solemn those days. Thoughts of self-harm came to mind then, but he ignored the self-destructive outlook as best as he could. He wanted to _feel_ again.

_I want to be normal._

6:41. Clint finally climbs out of his bed with a drowsy yawn. The realism of his dreams always shook him from his slumber, leaving him more exhausted than when he had fallen asleep the night before.

                Staring at his reflection in the dusty mirror of his tiny bathroom, Clint’s expression remains grave. Bringing his hand to his cheek, he notices that he has not bothered to shave in a few days. He looked rugged and deranged, but he shrugs it off. _Who cares_.

                He deteriorates with every day.

                After he dresses, Clint sits on his bed and rests his chin in the palm of his hand. He closes his eyes.

                Loki.

                The nightmares are always the same. While he sleeps, they don’t scare him. He feels warm, and almost _pleasant_ , if that is actually possible. Sometimes they’re vague, sometimes they’re vivid. He and Loki are under Stuttgart. Clint follows the god as he talks of control and of rule on Midgard. Clint looked up to Loki at the time; Loki was very tall and slim, with decent stature for a man that had been so terribly worn down in the past. His Asgardian attire is simply remarkable, and Clint finds himself admiring it ever so often as he dreams. The god turns to him and smiles faintly, the blue glow that covers his once green eyes flicker with amusement. His lips move and form words, but Clint cannot translate what he is saying. The dream fades, but returns shortly. Loki has led him to a closed off corridor not far from the tesseract and its mind-controlled workers. They barricade themselves in the confinement, and Loki begins to remove his armour.        

                He remembers the conversation clearly in his mind—this part of the nightmare is always the same, never hazy.

                _“Midgard used to be my home; did you know that, Barton?”_

_“No, I did not, sir.”_

_“Yes. Thor and I visited this realm often in our younger days. Mortals worshiped us, looked up to us…Do you know what it is like, Barton, to have that_ power _?” Loki cooed, eyeing the man. Clint shook his head, keeping his eyes trained on the god as he dropped various items from his Asgardian garm onto the concrete ground._

_“Sir, might I ask what you are doing?” The archer questioned, faltering a bit on his feet. Loki paused and turned to Clint, tilting his head slightly. A devious grin spread across his pallid face, making him look ghost-like. The god had approached him, laying a hand on the archer’s chest._

_“You see, my little Hawk, it has been many a moon since I have last been in the presence of mortals,” he breathed, closing the space between he and Clint. A few mere inches separated the two. Clint remained stationary. “It would be_ quite _the occasion if you could help me recall what your species is like…how similar we are—worldly and godly.”_

Now, wide awake in the early hours of the day, Clint’s breath hitches as he remembers the night. Whether or not it actually happened, he cannot stop thinking about it. He’s constantly scared of the memory, but also aroused.

                The dream would progress and Loki would move Clint to the spare cot in the concealed room. Every night, it was the same. They stripped and fell into each other’s arms. Loki’s ashen body was soft to Clint’s touch—every kiss he administered across the god’s chest sent him into a deeper state of ecstasy. He remembers Loki’s neck craned back while Clint slowly moved down his torso, nearing his pants. The god’s jaw moves slightly as breathless moans pass his lips in a cyclic pattern. Soon they were both undressed and emerged in fervent sex, lasting for quite some time. He remembered Loki bucking beneath him, his eyes closed and his breath sharp as Clint drove further into the god.

                _“I want to hear your birdsong, Hawk,”_ Loki had murmured before Clint’s climax with a tone heavy of devilish sarcasm. They came simultaneously.

***

He’s crying into his hands. Life continues to progress around his miserable existence while Clint carries on with his self hatred. What a waste of time, he thinks.

Sorrow is an emotion. Sorrow is sentiment, bitter sentiment. Some say that the difference between true sadness and distress is sorrow itself—to be distressed is to reject what has happened, while true sadness is acceptance. Sorrow, the middle ground, is the hardest part of misery.

8:00 AM, the roof of his apartment. He wears a heavy black suede jacket. The rain has long since stopped, though a heavy wind does not cease to brush against the various buildings on the block. A melancholy sky slowly begins to clear of the monster-like thunderheads, revealing the radiant sun. It’s a brisk day, late in autumn. In the past, Clint enjoyed the incoming fall season. Now, it is just a reminder of the snow that was imminent to arrive eventually to the sharpshooter.

For a moment, it felt to him as if everything was spinning. Standing near the edge of the roof, he gazes down at the abandoned street. His block was almost always empty—living in the bad part of New York City usually keeps people out of the sidewalks. He falters, and then steps back a bit. His breath breaks before speeding up, coming out in uneven puffs.

_What are you doing?_

No one would care.

                _It’s been weeks. For all they know, you’re already dead._

You might as well be.

A smile spread across his worn face. Clint was tired. He longed for an undisturbed rest, and for his dreams to go away…no more restless nights. What else was there to do?

A brief flash of Loki in his mind. Clint shudders, looking down as if in shame. He bites his bottom lip before looking up again, his eyes following the horizon of endless city.

He wants to see the god again. He wants closure.

SHIELD never bothered to confiscate the weapons they had previously given him once he was on leave. It was a simple pistol, nothing special. He kept it in the drawer of his bedside table most of the time.

The breeze picks up, and the sun vanishes behind looming thunderheads. A rumble was audible, somewhere in the distance.

His heart races faster. Clint holds his breath, looking left and right...perhaps for an answer, or for a sign. Hot tears began to stream down his face as he removes the gun from the inside of his coat.

“Help me,” he murmurs. A smile creeps across his face, “Loki.”

With the gun to his temple, Clint pulls the trigger. For the first time in a long time, he prays that someone will help him. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was, originally, a quick drabble I wrote in an old notebook. The other day I unearthed it and decided to revamp it just a little bit. Pardon the fact that it's very choppy, I wrote it while I was partially feverish.


End file.
